My son sneaks over to see me now, careful not to upset his wife… and I once gave him everything.
I raised him alone. That’s how it happened—the man who got me pregnant wanted no part in marriage, no responsibility. When little Alfie was born, his father vanished soon after—first staying out late, then disappearing for “lads’ nights,” until one day, he simply never returned. And that was it. Just me, a newborn in my arms, and an emptiness in my chest that couldn’t be healed with tears, only with work.
My parents saved me then. Without Mum and Dad, I’d have drowned. Dad hauled coal, built our stove with his own hands. Mum cooked stews, rocked the pram, sat up nights when my strength gave out. We survived. I worked at a tailor’s, took extra stitching jobs at home. All for Alfie—so he’d never want for anything, never feel lesser.
He grew up good—kind, obedient, always smiling. When he turned eighteen, I wept in the dark, terrified the army would take him away. But through old ties, we got him stationed near Nottingham. I visited every week. Sometimes, if his CO allowed, he came home. Home—to me, under my care.
When his service ended, he went to uni. That’s when it changed. He met a girl—Charlotte. I saw her first at a Christmas do: striking, tall, eyes half-lidded like she knew all the world’s secrets. Alfie shone beside her, grinning like a schoolboy. She smiled—the sort of smile you give a stranger.
From the start, I knew—she didn’t want me in his life. Not me, not my mum, who adored her grandson. Charlotte never listened when I tried to explain: I wasn’t competing. I was his mother. She was the woman he loved. Different roles. But she treated it like a contest. And she won.
Before the wedding, I did the unthinkable—gave them my flat. Yes, we lived in a two-up-two-down in Leeds. Not a palace, but mine, earned stitch by stitch. I moved in with Mum because Alfie said, *”It’s better this way, Mum.”* I believed him. Thought it’d bring us closer.
At first, gratitude. Then—renovations. Charlotte threw out every stick of furniture, stripped the wallpaper, even changed the light fixtures. Nothing left to say his mother had lived there. I bit my tongue—young people, new rules. Still hurt.
A year later, little Matilda came. My first granddaughter. I was over the moon. Brought gifts—baby blankets, booties, ribbons… Charlotte took them with a tight smile, like she was doing me a favor letting me cross the threshold. At first, visits were scheduled—one hour a week. Then she announced:
*”Your house has cats. The fur could make Matilda ill. You can’t come anymore. Sorry.”*
Mum’s two cats—old, gentle things, never stepped outside. Yes, fur clings, but we washed, ironed, sprayed—still *”no.”* We only saw Matilda in her pram, outdoors. Charlotte kept a grip on the handle, same half-lidded stare.
Alfie barely visits now. He comes like a thief—twenty stolen minutes between shifts. Checks his watch, fidgets. Once, I asked:
*”Alfie, love, why like this? You’re a grown man—what’s happened?”*
He forced a laugh. *”Mum, Charlie’s breastfeeding. Stress could dry her up. I just… don’t want rows. It’s fine.”*
I knew—he was lying. In six months, Matilda’d be on solids. There’d be another excuse. He’s a stranger now. Like I never sat up with him through fevers, never carried bags of crisps to base, watching him drill in boots.
Now he lives frightened. Scared his wife will scowl, scared he’ll say the wrong thing. Not a man—a boy tiptoeing around a sleeping wolf.
I stay quiet. Don’t blame him. But my heart splits. Because I see it—all I gave him, the love, the flat, my health—means nothing now. Beside him stands a woman who scorns his past, his roots.
I don’t want thanks. Don’t need gifts. I just wanted to see him happy. Now I see him afraid. And that—that’s the worst pain a mother can know.